


Here, here is the world

by 35391291



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Disabled Character, Gen, M/M, Sign Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-24
Updated: 2017-09-24
Packaged: 2019-01-04 22:53:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12178071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/35391291/pseuds/35391291
Summary: Their hands used to speak gunfire, so they will always be sharp. But they will become something new, and they will drive the fear away.They have time. They have hope. They have a promise.





	Here, here is the world

**Author's Note:**

> This story was inspired by the prompts for the second day of Mag7Week: Together and Self-sufficiency. It's a companion to [Like the sparrows at sundown](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12318396).

Kiss  
the mouth  
which tells you, here,  
here is the world. This mouth. This laughter. These temple bones.

\- Galway Kinnell: [Little Sleep's-Head Sprouting Hair In The Moonlight](https://www.poemhunter.com/poem/little-sleep-s-head-sprouting-hair-in-the-moonli/).

*

It's too quiet in here. Too dusty and too slow. The wind stings, and the air is charged with a forthcoming storm. Vasquez lights his cigar again and sighs. When the weather is like this, all he can do is stand outside in his shirtsleeves and smoke. He can't move, and he feels useless. This pain in his left arm, his cross left over from Rose Creek, tries his patience and makes him slow. But he has to look around. He has to remember. He's seen worse things, and this is not too bad. He can get by. He doesn't need anything. Not now.

It might be the weather. Or it might be something else. But he can hear himself think, and he'd rather not. If he closes his eyes, he is haunted by the thoughts of everything he's almost lost. He knows that it's just his tired mind at work, but he is still afraid. What if he wakes up one day, and there's nothing left? What if it's all a dream? And what if it's too late?

Tonight, he could use a distraction. A stupid joke. A trick. Anything. But there's nothing. The silence is dark and heavy with things unsaid, and it hurts. He remembers that day. He remembers the blood and the dirt and the shrapnel. And he remembers Faraday's quiet panic and desperation. How he needed to scream, but couldn't. How he needed to say all those things before they ran out of time. But his mouth wouldn't obey him, his voice wouldn't work.

Everything has changed now. Faraday points to his heart. Something hurts. But he has no words anymore. All he has now is a closed fist and tired hands. Vasquez wishes he could do something about all this pain, maybe roll it into a dark bundle and burn it, bury it someplace deep and far, make it go away. But he can't. All he can do is be here, and choose to stay.

The rain starts, and they sit together, in silence. Vasquez knows what it's like, to have to learn new words in order to survive. Maybe he can help, maybe there is some way to give him back his words. So he thinks back, and he remembers. He tells Faraday about the priest back in his pueblo, when he was a boy. How he taught the people who couldn't hear to speak with their hands. The shapes cut quickly through the years and the silence, as he tries to mold them into words. Bird. Cloud. Sky. Heart. _Look at my hands. Look at me._ Vasquez wishes that he could remember more. But the words don't really matter. It's his patience, his hands. His promise. That's important now. That's what becomes the world.

It won't be easy. Faraday's hands only open when they come close to his heart. These new words might never feel right. But it doesn't matter. Having a language of their own is enough. It's a quiet way of going forward. Their hands used to speak gunfire, so they will always be sharp. But they will become something new, and they will drive the fear away. Slowly. Faraday touches his mouth, and maybe that means a sort of forever. They have time. They have hope. They have a promise.

Vasquez can still hear himself think, but the silence isn't too bad anymore. Maybe he can grow quiet, too. If he can't find the right words, then his hands will. How else could he explain something he has never felt before? There are unspoken words he never expected, tucked safely in the arms that cradle him close. They heal him and keep him safe and lie next to him at night. They are precious and rare, like laughter. Like home. And there is something in his eyes. Tenderness. The promise of that home. And he doesn't turn away. He lets Faraday see it. And he guides his hand to the place where his heart is, so that there can be no doubt. His fingers find the Guadalupe at his neck, always there, always reassuring. And then they find the copper in Faraday's hair, and the grey in his temples. So real. So dear.

Maybe, just maybe, Vasquez knows that it's all right to need something. These days, maybe he holds on a bit too tightly. He doesn't want to miss anything. He doesn't want to let go. There is a dream here, a quiet moment, a small miracle. It's all he's ever wanted. He can stop searching. He can belong here. And here is the world, hiding in the silence, in a single breath. Here is a home of sorts, cradled by moonlight. Here, the words can slowly become tender, slowly turn into stars.


End file.
